


To Ballast a Mockingbird

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Basically the unofficial Brief History of Our Lord And Savior Petyr Baelish, F/M, also Petyr is greysexual - fight me, canon-verse, subtitled: And the Trash Ship That I Will Sink On
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 15:04:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11923419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Petyr Baelish loved the stories and songs of brave knights pitted against vile foes - and winning their true love's hearts.A pity he died on the shores of the Trident, alone.





	To Ballast a Mockingbird

**Author's Note:**

> [This is my own personal approach to how Petyr became Littlefinger, growing up disbelieving in stories. I'm real proud with how it turned out!!! (and I’m sorry it took a while to write, I had to reference a lot of stuff from the books/show lol) Really hoping you guys like it :D
> 
> This is also, in a way, my “farewell” to our beloved boy from tv. May he live on in the books and in our hearts :’) ((I'm not ready to say goodbye y'all))]

 

           Petyr was terrified. Of course he was. The arm that held his own sword shook despite the sticky warmth that blanketed the Riverlands. His palms slick with sweat. His shoulders sagged under the weight the mail, far too large for him. Throughout his body was the endless hammering of his blood: an anthem to lead him into – and out of – battle.

           Petyr was terrified, completely. But the gods wouldn't let him fail. Not when his heart was in the right place. Not when  _ love  _ was on the line. 

           Brandon was so much bigger, and stronger, and held his own sword with a certain finesse that Petyr lacked. No matter. Brandon finished removing  _ excess  _ armor to match Petyr (which was most of it, both protected now only by helm, a mail shirt, and breastplate. It was obvious by how ill-fitting and clean Petyr's armor was that he might have been smart to end the duel before it began. A pity he didn’t). Brandon offered Petyr to yield already before, multiple times – Petyr did not accept. The long-drawn  _ sliiiiiink _ of the blade freed from Brandon’s sheathe. It paused the hot hammering of Petyr's heart, a spectre's finger trailing down his back. Brandon paced side to side, twirling the metal sword in one arm and wielding a knowing grin. He looked ridiculous.

_ No matter _ , Petyr told himself, stealing a glance at the cascade of red just behind the Stark boy. Remembering the taste of wine and her name on his lips.  _ I'll still win.  _

           Catelyn was there, and her sister, too. Watching the from sides. He asked Cat for a favor to wear (that's how all the knights did it. How romantic to wear your lover’s kerchief or pin as you fought for honor!) Instead she gave it to Brandon. Cat didn't give Petyr anything but a taut line of her mouth and a quiet “Good luck.” Petyr imagined what she would say when he won – if Cat would thank him with words and a kiss. He hoped so. That's how all the beautiful maidens thanked their savior in songs. Petyr gripped the leather hilt with both hands and prayed one last time to the gods. 

           Then he struck. 

           Brandon maneuvered out of the way, jabbed the pommel of his own sword into Petyr's back. Petyr tumbled forward. Caught himself barely, turned around to raise the sword as Brandon sliced the air. 

           Petyr's shoulder lurched.

           Brandon laughed a “Yield, kid,” as he withdrew his sword. It sounded  _ hideous _ . Like the slinking of a sword from its sheathe. Like the tumbling of rocks, the drowning of a bird in wolf’s jaws and it's own blood. Like the monsters that captured the fair princess and demanded death before turning her over to the chivalrous prince. 

           But l ike the humble Florian winning the heart of the pure and innocent Jonquil, Petyr wasn’t going to give up.

           Petyr bared his teeth and ran forward again. Raised his sword again. Struck hard and true again. 

           Fell down again. 

           Brandon whipped the metal quickly so it sang in the air before it screamed against Petyr's breastplate (or maybe it was Petyr who screamed) with precision enough to slice apart the leather fastenings. The faintest kiss of metal against flesh where the mail exposed armpit, so lover's-light it didn't tear flesh. Brandon twirled his sword, poised for Petyr to strike again. “Yield already,” he called out. 

           Petyr miraculously dodged the next blow, scrambling to lunge at legs. Brandon jumped out of the way, spinning on heel. His sword sparked against the chainmail protecting Petyr’s shoulder. He fell to the ground, gasping.

           “ _ Yield, _ Petyr!” someone called out. Cat? He hoped it was, and hoped it wasn't. It could have been Lysa, or Brandon, or even the mangled voice of reason inside himself. 

           He ignored it as he stood, wiping sweat away from his face. There might have been tears there, too. Warm and sticky as the blood that ribboned across his sword arm and chest. But there wasn't an ounce of yielding to be found in his soul. The sun-kissed auburn tangled between his fingers, the gentle press of her lips to his, the cry of the savage wolf beast struck down – Petyr  _ couldn't _ lose.

           Again Petyr struck, and again Brandon laughed as he parried and struck back. The ribbons across his arm, his cheek, grew in size, in number, in color. His shirt was a mess of sweat and dirt and crimson beneath mail. Red slowly slunk between the uncolored gaps. Time and again Petyr struck until his muscles, his very soul, ached.

           “Please, Brandon, please don't kill him! Petyr, just yield!” It was Cat. Trying – and failing – to talk sense to them. Petyr didn't want to yield, not to someone like Brandon. And that bastard was  _ laughing  _ as he flayed Petyr. It was the worst sound imaginable.

           Once more. The knight doesn't give up, not until the beast is slain and the princess rescued. 

           Once more. The prince denounced the vile deeds of the beast and wins, always wins. 

_ Once more. _

           Petyr’s arms shook with the effort to lift his body from from the dirt. To raise his sword. His breastplate hung limply off his shoulders, rings of mail littered the grass like stars fallen from the sky. In the holes were stars of crimson. The roar of blood in his head drowned the roar of the river, the roar of someone screaming for him to  _ stop _ . 

           He took a step towards the Wolf–

           And the Wolf slammed the flat of the blade against Petyr's arm. He screamed as he fell to his knees, clawing desperately for the useless sword, trying desperately to raise it and shield himself and win. 

           Brandon flicked it aside without effort and rose the blade high. 

           “....yield.” Petyr struggled the word from his throat. It was less than a whisper. Still he reached for his sword, not  _ wanting  _ to yield. Not wanting to lose, not like this. Knights never yielded. Knights never lost. 

           The tip of Brandon's sword sparkled against the sun overhead. The length – spotted with Petyr's life, crimson against silver – a blinding arc down onto Petyr.

           A momentary thought:  _ good _ . 

           He screamed. 

           Blood, and pain, and screaming. So much screaming. 

           Brandon was laughing – so distinct a sound, even as Petyr lay dying. 

           Eventually someone wrapped arms around him, forcing the blood back into the endless wounds scarring his body. Someone was whispering “Please don't die. Petyr,  _ please _ .”

           Petyr closed his eyes. 

           If the gods were kind, he wouldn't open them. 

* * *

           He did. 

           Days later he used those eyes to watch the song crumble apart before him. Petyr couldn't bear to  _ look. _

           It was disgusting, the angry mark running down his chest. The  _ memory  _ of what he'd done. From the hollow of his throat to his navel, red and raw and  _ permanent.  _ The Maester said Petyr was  _ lucky  _ Brandon's sword didn't cut his head or heart. That Brandon stopped when he did. He said it would heal over time. He said Petyr was lucky.

           Petyr heard  _ foolish  _ instead _.  _ What else would Brandon's scar mean than that? To think, in some inane level of disbelief, that Petyr could enter that duel and win. To think the songs were real. To think love won battles.

           To think love  _ existed _ . He knew now – no, love was a figment of silly stories told to children to ease them into marriages and childbirth. Petyr never  _ felt  _ love, wanted to feel it with Catelyn because she was beautiful and her smiles made him smile. Assumed that wanting to see someone smile so beautifully was what love was. Assumed that to show how much his heart yearned for her, he needed to win her hand in combat.

           The truth was, Petyr never would have won.

           There wasn't anything to be proud of in that hideous scar. No  _ pride  _ like the kind Brandon would wield – battle scars showing toughness, and strength, and all sorts of  _ manly _ things they heralded. Was it a blessing that Petyr could conceal it beneath dressing shirts and doublets and pretend it didn't exist? Maybe. But it would always be there. A secret between himself and his past. 

           Were Petyr truly lucky he wouldn't be alive. He bit his lip until he tasted metal. Then the taste sent his body reeling, thinking it was dying again. The Maester gave him milk of the poppy and a sad grimace. 

_ At least I took from her before I died _ , he thought, a bitter sort of happiness overtaking him. If Petyr closed his eyes he could faintly remember that night of party and drinks and song. He had imbibed heavily because he could (and because Edmure convinced them all, the lords were away discussing politics and what have them. “True men drink,” someone told him once. “And they take what's theirs, even if they have to fight for it.” Look where the fuck that led him). Petyr remembered dancing with Catelyn, light filling his heart. Where her hands grazed his shoulders he thought he might explode. She was  _ smiling,  _ too. From drink, yes, but in his presence. In his arms. 

           From the proposal to Brandon. From leaving Riverrun – and Petyr – behind. 

_ True men take what's theirs _ . 

           So Petyr kissed Cat. And Cat shoved him away – no smiles, no tears. Only anger. 

           Then he remembered the drinking. Cups and cups of it until the world felt as hazy and unreal as his fingers. Somehow he wound up in bed wearing sweat-stained underclothes and a pounding headache. And after that... The ghosting of a body atop him, the warmth of hands and lips pressed against his as he came. Blood and come on his cock when he awoke – and he giddied at the thought of being Cat’s first. She pretended she didn't remember. 

           Catelyn didn't visit him as he healed, nor did Brandon come to  _ apologize _ for nearly killing him. Lysa was there, an unfortunate but welcome presence from the darkness clouding his thoughts. She wept when he was awake or asleep, hand never leaving his. That gesture – the soft touch of Lysa's skin on his – made him shudder, though he couldn't fathom why. She wept, too, when her father announced that Petyr was to leave and never return, arms flung around his neck. Petyr wanted to push her away but something made him pretend to care about Lysa.

           Petyr couldn't help but wonder – in the small fragment of foolishness that hadn't died completely as Brandon cleft him near in two – if a song would be written of his valiant duel with the Stark. No, not likely. The idea came and left as swift as the currents of the Trident. 

           No songs would be sung for Petyr Baelish. No tales of chivalry. His name unknown and uncared for. Because in this song, Petyr was the beast. 

           When he was escorted from Riverrun, he didn't look back. 

* * *

           Songs  _ were _ foolish things. 

           Petyr detested them, so much so that the first chord of any flight of fancy between a gallant knight and his proposed maiden made Petyr’s chest churn until he was well out of earshot (he had the politeness at least not to tell bards to shut up. Petyr could thank Hoster Tully for that). He much preferred the bawdy tunes – no falsities of what was happening. No impossibilities. Men and women fucked in songs just as they did in real life. Gallant knights were merely a figment of childish imaginations. 

           Petyr much preferred the company of whores, too, who knew just as well as he did that love was a joke from the gods. People didn't want love; they wanted to fuck. They wanted to fill the emptiness in their souls with sweat and come.

           Petyr threw himself into his work. Alone. No one much cared for him in Gulltown, not as a person at least. And definitely not at first. They cared for Petyr Baelish as the body attached to the hand that organized bookkeeping and finances. He was good,  _ great _ , even. When coins started flowing  _ into  _ the city's coffers rather than out was when the lords took notice of Petyr. 

           They took notice of his mind only. No one expected Petyr to fight, or brawl, or  _ take what's his _ . Not as a lord whose inheritance was worth less than a night’s company with a whore. Not as a lord, even, but as a jumpstarted little man who they eyed to make sure he didn't so much as think of rising above his station. Wouldn't want to give common folk the wrong idea that  _ any  _ man could be  _ great _ . 

           Petyr was Petyr. A small man who understood the mystery of numbers, and who spoke with common street whores as if they were deserving of non-sexual attentions. Sometimes, with the fine silk and colors of his doublets, men (some of whom Petyr recognized as the region’s lords and sworn knights) would mistake Petyr as the owner of his friends/whores. The women played along because they found the lords' embarrassment just as hilarious as Petyr had. 

           The women – by assumption of Petyr’s  _ virtue –  _ tried to sway him towards their male whores. Petyr would thank them with, “No thank you, but I'm flattered. Unfortunately my heart belongs to another, if you can believe it.” They laughed. He didn't. Petyr didn't bother to correct himself: his heart died years ago. 

           The lords loved him, as much as haughty nobles could display affection for a man that owned nothing but rocks and shit. Had he not the recommendation of the House Tully, Petyr was sure he would never step a single foot past the massive walls of Gulltown. 

           Lysa, it seemed, still held sweet affections for him, as evidenced by her recommendation. Petyr no longer believed in love, but he knew the foolish things people would do for the illusion. He knew better than anyone alive – that crooked line bisecting him too painful a reminder. 

           But Lysa. Petyr thought to the days spent in Riverrun’s godswood playing at kissing. How  _ fervent  _ she had been to kiss Petyr as Petyr had towards Catelyn. How easy it was to slip his tongue between Lysa's lips and imagine Petyr was kissing a different girl with auburn curls. 

           How painful her hand had gripped his – how red and puffy her eyes – when he left Riverrun. 

           One foolish night before he was to depart for Gulltown, he found himself sitting in the drab common room of his  _ castle  _ at the Fingers with a quill in hand. After many cups and relieving himself of the pesky ache between his legs, he wrote a letter to Catelyn. Brandon was dead. And Catelyn was to marry his brother, another Stark, whose name his drunked mind couldn’t bother to remember. To marry him, and bear his children and live in the dreary cold till she died. A pity. He wrote a letter, and sent it, not knowing or caring whether she read and responded. In the ink and parchment, Petyr wrote invisible words of  _ Goodbye _ . 

           Goodbye Catelyn. 

           Goodbye Petyr. 

           Because Petyr vowed never to be foolish again. 

           The scar – pink and jagged and healed, but not really, not ever – dug deeper than the Maester assumed. The blade jabbed between ribs, tore his heart into two, left them bleeding on the shores of the Trident under a midday sun. Tender and red and beating.

           Petyr let the pieces rot. 

* * *

           King’s Landing was a welcome breath of anonymity. Not a welcome breath of  _ fresh air –  _ the streets smelled heavily of piss and shit and gods-knew-what, made worse by the salt breezes that wound through the narrow gaps between buildings. You couldn't escape the filth unless you were safely cloistered in the thick walls of the Red Keep. And in the Red Keep you were surrounded by the filth of nobility. 

           None of whom truly cared about Petyr. Lords and ladies spoke hushed whispers about the new Master of Coin. Wondered who he was, who his family was, if he was deserving of such fanciful a position. All gossip asserted that, no, Petyr Baelish was merely  _ lucky  _ that the wife of Jon Arryn put in a good word for him. Jon was much loved and respected by the court. Petyr was less much loved and respected than the other lord on the small council who sat higher than his rank: the Master of Whispers. Something of the bald man sat ill in Petyr's stomach. 

           Of the thousands of people littering the capital, only two knew Petyr. And only one would tear her heart out imitating the songs to get what she wanted. 

           Petyr ignored Lysa as well as he could. 

           Not entirely. That wouldn't sit well with Lysa, who preferred to utilize her position against him. “Make love to me, Petyr, or I'll have Jon kick you from the Keep,” she would say, cornering Petyr in a darkened alcove with footsteps echoing just out of sight. Her breath often smelled of wine. Her body perfumed with a menagerie of scents that Petyr had to kiss her to stop the bile crawling up his throat. 

           He didn't imagine Catelyn, not anymore. She was  _ taken _ , after all. She never  _ loved  _ him in her heart. 

           Petyr hadn't imagine kissing anyone since he died. A misshapen shadow without a heart.

           “Let's escape, Petyr. Me and you, tonight. No one can stop us from loving each other as the gods wanted us to.” Lysa emphasized her  _ devotion  _ by rubbing her hand roughly against his cock through his trousers. It did nothing to harden him. No wonder she had difficulty aiding Jon Arryn to spilling his seed inside her (not to mention he was a light push away from falling and never standing back up. Petyr wondered how often that whisper crept into Lysa's head).

           Petyr growled into his next kiss – a sound that was  _ expected _ when being touched. It was as real as all the moans he taught his whores. “Not tonight, sweetling.” He tangled fingers in her hair. Pressed her into his body so she would stop fumbling with his cock. “Not tonight.”

           Lysa returned to her bedchamber with a disgusting happiness to her step. She would do  _ anything  _ to be with Petyr. Deep down he always knew. The little girl from Riverrun never really grew up, not like how Petyr did. Or like how Catelyn did. Lysa  _ wanted _ her life to be a story – to have a happy ending with her one true love.

_Not tonight_ , he told himself, straightening his clothes. _Not yet._

* * *

           The women and men he employed vied for Petyr’s attention, with almost the same sick determination that Lysa bestowed. “Are you being  _ coy  _ with your nickname?” they would ask. Everyone knew Petyr's childhood name – it was used more often than his title, and had stopping stinging before he left for King's Landing.

           He would only smile from his bookkeeping with a “Perhaps. Though I'm afraid my  _ finger  _ isn't for your consumption.”

           They at least had the wits – and the lower birth – not to force themselves upon him. They thought he was powerful, being a part of the small council. And with that came the honorary title of Lord. (It didn’t sound as good as it used to when he was a child. Lord Baelish). They assumed he was capable of ending their lives with a sweep of his hand. To send the mighty Kingsguard upon them.

           Well, not the Kingsguard, those  _ righteous  _ knights were too busy guarding a drunken king and his petulant child. The city guard though, whose pockets were filled at Petyr's orders. Lysa, who would whisper into Jon Arryn’s ear the ideas that Petyr told her during hallway trysts. The coins that conveniently found their way not in the Keep’s stores but stores away elsewhere, waiting. In a way, he had some sort of power in this wretched city.

           More than anyone would ever know.

           He sat doing his books and idly teaching a pair of new girls how best to squeeze as much coins out of a man with the least amount of physical contact. They weren’t doing very well. Petyr ordered them to stop, to  _ understand _ that everyone knew their charade. “You’re not fooling them,” he said, leaning against his desk, watching. “They know what you are, they know it’s all just and act.  _ Your  _ job is to make them forget it’s an act.”

           They were doing marginally better. Still so much to learn, still so much stubbornness to correct. But flat-out fear and anger towards his whores did nothing to keep them loyal to him. Petyr knew well enough that a certain level of  _ financial security _ is what people like them wanted.

           “Why don’t you try this, m’lord?” she asked over the sound of the other’s woman’s moans, her mouth lapping over a nipple.

           Petyr stared at them. At the join where her fingers thrust into cunt. At the sweat lining their bodies. At the ceaseless pleas of  _ More  _ and  _ Don’t stop _ between breathless gasps when she rubbed against clit.

           And felt nothing.

           “I’m saving myself for another,” he said. The  _ excuse _ had worked many times before.

           Petyr wanted to leave it at that, but the new girl was curious. “I do believe m’lord’s in love.”

           A jest. He couldn’t help but smile – a smile filled with a certain sadness that he was sure they wouldn’t identify. Perhaps it was her heritage of her north, but more perhaps it was the cascade of her red hair that clung to her cheeks and neck, that made Petyr feel  _ nostalgic _ . “For many years, yes.”  _ For many years I have loathed it _ . His scar twitched beneath his undershirt.

           So he told them in brief his  _ sad tale _ . The poor, small boy fighting against the brutish, strong knight. The child never wanting to give up, to lose – knowing that the underdog always won in stories and songs. And then his love left him to die on the shores of the Trident. Left him to leave for the Fingers alone. Left him to marry another brutish Wolf. Left him.

           The girl came, her cries carrying Petyr back into his brothel.

           Petyr sat back down and resumed scratching entries in his logbooks. “Go wash up. Both of you will be working tonight.”

           There was something about fucking – base, animalistic fucking, the kind men expected of his whores – that dealt away with the need of connecting  _ emotionally _ . There was no pretense of love, no foolhardy idea that their coupling would lead to anything else. Fucking was just fucking.

           Some men and women wanted that  _ companionship _ , however. A skill just as vital as giving head or learning how to take a massive cock in the ass. So Petyr taught his girls to  _ take _ everything they could. Money, come, secrets spilled in the afterglow. 

           People were so  _ vulnerable _ when they let their heart guide them.

           It was disgusting. A weakness.

           But profitable.

           Petyr didn't need any more vulnerabilities. The weight of his scar was heavy enough.

* * *

           He never expected to see her, not again. He’d said goodbye to her many times, last of which was just before he left his home for good.

           A good thing Catelyn Stark wasn't smiling (how ill that family name butchered hers. And the years and children – she could have been so much prettier. She still was, yes. But older. Wiser). And her hands, bandaged from the wounds. An unexpected casualty.

           But Petyr had sweetly asked Lysa to poison her husband, and send her sister a letter claiming the Lannisters had done it. And Petyr then sweetly sent an assassin with his own dagger to Winterfell.

           A dagger that now glistened red from the wispy curtains, and from the trail of Varys’ blood. Petyr warned the Spider how sharp the blade would be, and yet the eunuch felt the need to test it out for himself.

           Catelyn demanded answers, though would not say as much given the courtesies Hoster Tully beat into her head. Still, in the company of an  _ old friend _ , she had let her guard down just a fraction. Still, in the presence of Petyr, she assumed he was the small, weak child that had been beaten down upon the Trident.

           Petyr hefted the dagger in one hand, tossing it with a twirl and catching it with nary a slice to his own fingers. With a single motion, he threw it at the door, satisfied at the penetration in the oak. He’d forgotten the feel, the weight of the knife. A pity he could not keep it. 

           “It’s mine,” he said. Explaining further that it  _ was _ his, and was currently owned by no other than the Imp.

           Catelyn’s mind was whirring with possibilities.  _ Good _ . Discord needed to be sown between the Lannisters and the Starks. One of many threads Petyr pulled. And with Varys in attendance, Petyr’s own  _ innocence _ in the matter would be noted.

           Oh, how innocent Petyr wouldn’t be when the whole country burned.

* * *

           No one expected Eddard Stark to die. Petyr expected Cersei to force him to bend the knee, to hand over Winterfell, to do something obviously foolish against the Stark's innate loyalty. And Eddard, being stubborn like all the Wolves before him, would deny at first until the fate of his wife and children were at stake. And then, maybe, that thick headed man would realize that King's Landing was not at all the same dreary winterland where  _ honor  _ was currency. 

           Things were going as smoothly as Petyr could have thought. The possibility that Joffrey would do something  _ rash  _ was stoppered by the fact that Cersei would have been there to prevent anything completely foolish. Even Petyr assumed Joffrey would keep the smallest amount of composure during Ned’s confession. 

           But things did not go nearly as smoothly as Ilyn’s blade through the Wolf's neck. 

           He did not expect  _ this. _

           The roar of the crowd deafened the utter shock of the lords gathered atop the steps of Baelor's Sept. 

           Least of all, Petyr Baelish did not expect to feel that beating in his chest. Over ten years had past since he remembered the pounding beneath ribs. How much it  _ hurt _ everywhere. 

           He'd spied her countless times during her father's short-lived position as Hand of the King. She looked so much like Cat, Petyr often had to remind himself he was a man grown and not a foolish child playing at songs in a castle by the water. So much like Cat: the thick, long tresses of auburn curls; the wide blue eyes that stared at him with confusion and uncertainty; the soft pink lips that mirrored courtesies she’d been taught since ever she had the skill.

           Petyr did not care one way or another whether the ghost made flesh of his childhood foolishness was  _ happy _ with her betrothed. Likely not. Not with the way lords whispered about his antics after a good fuck. Not with the way the lesser and common folk spread gossip as they met with their king in hopes of currying favor and aide. Not with the way the snively Lion stood, too proud (a  _ Stag _ in name, yes, but anyone with two eyes and a sliver of brain could see that the Prince was as closely related to a Stag as Petyr was). 

           Sansa would be  _ miserable _ , if she were lucky.

           Her father denounced his house as traitors. And for his loyalty, he paid with his life. 

           Her screams tore through the crowd – commoners whooping for fresh blood, rallied behind the false words Joffrey spat to urge them louder. Sansa's sky blue gown caught on armor of the knight who held her back from rushing to her father's lifeless body. Tears glistened in the midday sun.

           Petyr watched her. And he saw a small boy with tousled hair and a sword raised high. A smile on his face ripped apart with blood. A pitiful plea of  _ Yield _ lost to the world. A scream, too, as he was left to die on the banks of the Trident.

           It was….jarring. Terrifying.

           He told Sansa once, in passing through the Throne room, that life was not a song. He hadn’t known she would come to realize the truth in it so soon.

           It was  _ pity.  _ It was a bleak camaraderie of souls broken by the songs they once held so dear. 

           On and on the spectre of Petyr’s past screamed, even as she was held back by knights. Even as Joffrey urged the crowd to cheer louder. Even as flies nipped at her father's decapitated head.

           On and on Petyr’s heart thrummed.

* * *

           Days passed. Weeks, months. 

           The small council was still getting used to the change of  _ King  _ Joffrey (no one dared to  _ openly  _ mock their king as he paraded into the chambers for show  and loudly proclaimed himself King as he ordered them to perform his bidding. Often stupid biddings). Petyr reassured the King and his mother all was well with finances (and also, eventually, the new Hand, whose stern gazes and earned lines reminded Petyr of Hoster Tully. That is, Petyr wasn't fond of how carefully Tywin paid attention to dealings. A pity Eddard had died so soon).

           The Crown was at a staggeringly negative number. Not in any books or records – but in Petyr's own catalogs he stored beneath floorboards in his brothel. He would need to be careful now diverting dragons out of the city. 

           But all of it – the execution, the new appointed lords, the rigorous regime that echoed those of the Dragons – all of it didn't stand in the way of Petyr's plans. Ruined many, yes, but not to the point of complete abandon. 

           Through it all, a ghost in his mind: her screaming.

           She was younger than him when Petyr learned that life wasn’t as kind as the pretty words minstrels sang for coppers. She was younger, and dreadfully alone.

           Day in and day out Sansa Stark smiled and curtsied and allowed Joffrey to demean her as he saw fit. Which was often. Were he king (as he so often proclaimed, despite being several years and several inches shy of King), Petyr imagined his machinations to be  _ worse _ . Worse than calling his reluctant betrothed a traitor? Worse than showing her the decapitated heads of her family, her friends, her Septa? Worse than beating her in a crowd that didn’t move so much as their smallest finger to aide Sansa? (This being with the exception perhaps of the Hound and Tyrion Lannister. Petyr thought that  _ chivalrous  _ knights and deformed dwarfs didn’t count).

           She had no friends, no true friend. Every handmaiden spied for the queen, or the Spider, or for Petyr. She was quiet unless expected to speak. She kept her head down, to hide the tears and anger in Tully blue eyes. She easily called her brother Robb a traitor, despite the obvious pain as the words escaped her lips. She didn’t scream too much when Joffrey had his dogs beat her.

           And yet, Sansa endured.

           She was to be wed soon, to that hideous dwarf. Not the  _ worst  _ prospect, no, but far from the Knight of Flowers she once swooned over in moons past. A maiden flowered promptly deflowered. Although, her mind and her soul were deflowered as her father's neck birthed strands of crimson. The thought irked Petyr. 

           It was her similarity. Her wits. Her use of shrinking into herself, along with kindness and smiles – so filled with a hidden sadness that brought out the endless ocean of her eyes; so filled with a lingering hatred that flushed her hair angry against the overhead sun. 

           Petyr told himself it was only because Sansa reminded him so much of himself. That's why the ache persisted. 

           His mind was made up. (It had been made up all those months ago, if he was being honest with himself. But there weren’t enough cups of wine in his stomach for honesty to slip into his voice, whether spoken or not). Petyr put in the order for two featherbeds aboard  _ The Merling King _ and would offer her sanctum the following day.

           Whether she took it or not.... Petyr couldn’t say which outcome he desired.

* * *

           Petyr spied her through the snow-misted glass. Wandering through the empty godswood, marveling as fluttering specks of white caught on her coat, her hair. She was alone.

           But she was  _ safe _ . 

           He couldn't help but smile. 

           Her smiles, her laughter. Petyr  _ relished  _ in them. Hidden from view, given only to her own ghosts. Sansa never knew Petyr spied her in her small brief moments of happiness. And brief they were. Too short, too few. Petyr wanted to see her  _ happy –  _ a feat done through carting her away from King’s Landing. From sending for a shipment of lemons to be carried up the mountain. From helping her rebuild Winterfell. 

           Sansa had been surprised when he made his announcement into the godswood. He’d been surprised, too, content to watch from the shadows. But something about the quiet innocence as she worked in the snow made Petyr’s feet move before he could stop them.

           They worked mostly in silence, Petyr devising the engineering required for the castle to come alive. He’d just finished a latticework of twigs, handing it to Sansa to place where it belonged. “This is just right,” she said, overlooking her home with a smile.

           Petyr rested a gloved hand across her cheek. “And so is that.”

           Sansa’s brows furrowed, her smile half disappeared in her confusion. “An so is what?”

           “Your smile, my lady. Shall I make another for you?”

           She didn’t answer for a moment. Perhaps debating if there was something behind his touch, behind his words. “If you would.”

           “Nothing would please me more.” He collected more twigs and worked on a second lattice. Petyr stole glances upwards, Sansa transfixed by his fingers. Her smile, though small, remained.

           When they had constructed a tall tower, raising it in its proper home, Sansa clutched the top with her fingers and flung the snow at Petyr. Ice slithered down the collar of his cloak – so cold it burned. 

           But Sansa was smiling, laughing almost. 

_ Because of me _ .

           He stole from her before, yes. And he  _ stole _ her, from King’s Landing and the misery it birthed. But from Sansa: small brushes of fingers through her hair (so beautiful, so soft). A chaste kiss to the back of her hand (to  _ comfort  _ the girl. To remind her that Petyr was the least of her enemies in King’s Landing). Hands atop a muddy brown coat as he reassured her that she was  _ safe _ away from the death bells peeling long away across the Blackwater (admittedly shooting that drunken fool in front of her was ill, but it was  _ necessary _ .  _ My poor Florian, _ she had said, and Petyr felt the whisper of reeds against his feet, the salt smell of the Trident, the sharp pain lancing through his chest. Dontos’ death was necessary, yes. A due reminder that stories were things adults told children to make them behave. A due reminder that the hell of life was far from the sweet words of songs and tales).

           Petyr placed his hands on either side of her face. Warming cheeks flushed from the cold. 

           She was so...beautiful. He wished he had the proper words to describe the ethereal creature before him. In her gaze was that same sadness that filled her.

           “What are you doing?” Sansa asked, her voice soft. Perhaps it was the cold that was getting to him – but he thought he felt her head push back into his fingers. As though  _ relishing _ the touch as much as he was.

           Again – that damned lump of muscle thrummed beneath his chest. It  _ hurt _ from so many quiet years of disuse. 

           He recognized it now for what it was. Not the  _ pity  _ as Petyr watched her squirm at her father's beheading. Not the  _ pride  _ as Petyr watched her curtsy with  _ pleases  _ and  _ thank yous  _ and survive the cesspit of King’s Landing. Not even the  _ relief  _ of lifting her from Dontos' rowboat onto his own ship. 

           It had grown into something far heavier than all of that. Something far more  _ terrifying.  _

           A pause, a moment for Sansa to break away. To reach in beneath the folds of his coat and furs, pry apart the torn skin running down his chest. Rip the seams until he bled dry. And from his unmoving corpse – pull his damned heart out. Toss it on the ground. Stomp it with abandon and turn away forever. 

           Was that what this was? A repeat of a song he once adored as that foolish boy? 

           No. That was someone else. This was something else. Something  _ real.  _ At least, it had to be more real than the mindless fucking of whores. 

           Sansa didn't pull away. Nor did she push forward. Waiting, anticipating. As uncertain about how her heart was beating? 

           To answer her question with words: “Kissing a snow maid.” To answer her question with flesh: Petyr leaned in and kissed her. His first kiss, his first foolish thing he'd done since his duel beside the Trident. 

           Robert broke the silence between them after their lips broke away. Sansa furious at the boy’s antics, at destroying the castle she and Petyr had reconstructed.

_ No matter _ , Petyr thought.  _ I’ll rebuild a thousand Winterfells for you _ .

           He stood a few moments longer in the white godswood. Collecting flakes in the palm of his glove. This kiss, this  _ admission  _ of the touches, had been Petyr’s first true  _ indulgence  _ of...whatever it was that was forcing his whole body to ache for this simple touch. He closed his fist around the snowflakes. 

           His first indulgence. And not the last.

* * *

           “Alayne. Come, give your father a kiss.”

           She did, a small peck on the cheek. Granted, they were in the company of a handful of hedge knights he had secured during his last trip. Petyr had to show restraint in ushering them out the door. It was a relief when they were gone.

           “I did not expect you back so soon,” she said, a certain  _ happiness _ in her words. It made Petyr’s chest hurt. “I am glad you’ve come.”

           “I would never have known it from the kiss you gave me.” A wise kiss, yes. What would newcomers think of such a pretty daughter planting an  _ improper  _ kiss upon her father? Or worse – a kiss upon not lips… Petyr stared at Sansa, remembering her face, the curve of her body beneath drab clothes. Her eyes – Tully blue and striking. Her lips – pink and smiling and, he thought,  _ wanting _ .

           He strode towards her, grabbing her face between his hands, and kissed her. Pulled her face, her body, into his, until there wasn’t room for a finger between their chests. Petyr tasted the mountain air on her. Licked it off her lips. Ran his tongue at the join of her lips, but pulling away before he lost himself in her. Lost himself  _ completely _ .

           “Now,  _ that’s _ the sort of kiss that says  _ Welcome home _ . See that you do better next time.”

           Sansa’s lips were red, her cheeks flushed. She looked so beautiful under his touch. “Yes, Father.”

           It was an improper joke, yes. But the news he'd brought, the crafted plans – Sansa would  _ want _ to kiss him properly. “I have brought my sweet girl back a gift.” Petyr held her hand and led her to sit upon his lap. 

           He had rearranged his carefully-laid plans for  _ her _ . It would take years to see their fruition. But they had time to wait for the rest of Westeros to fight and burn. Peace would remain in the Vale for sometime. Waiting, as it always had.

           Petyr decided to wait, too, for Sansa to come to him. 

           There were thoughts that plagued him late at night with several cups sitting in his stomach. Transifgured memories and dreams. Red curtains of his brothel, the smell of incense and sin. And: a beautiful, red-haired girl resting atop furs and pillows. Staring at her with eyes so blue Petyr wanted to drown in their depth. Her skin was ivory and smooth, stark against the fire cascading from her scalp. And from her lips: uncouth moans, pleas, breathless gasps fo  _ More _ . His fingers trailed across her skin, his mouth and tongue and teeth following in pursuit. From lips, to neck, both breasts, down the soft plane of her stomach. And finally sinking into her warm, waiting cunt. With his fingers, with his mouth, prolonging her moans until – finally, finally – he pressed inside her and she called out  _ Petyr _ .

           Was this that male need to  _ take _ ? Something baser than himself, more primal than his desire for everything. Petyr didn't know – he never had the pleasure. 

           He trailed fingers atop her thigh. A motion done so often he could recreate the feel of her warm skin beneath unflattering skirts just from memory (an inconvenience he wished to amend soon. Sansa deserved the finest silks and velvets and furs, not these terrible wool shifts). Petyr wondered – and not for the first time – how soft her skin would be. How  _ responsive  _ she would be when their flesh would make contact, no barriers between. Petyr imagined it sometimes in stolen glances whilst she bathed. Bare arms working carefully to wash dirt from colored hair without removing the (hideous) chestnut. The wide expanse of her back as she learn forward to grab the block soap. The quick turn of her head towards him, wondering for a moment if she was being watched, but never finding the ghostly culprit.

           Petyr's cock had grown hard. 

           He was torn. Between adjusting Sansa upon his lap so he could hide that unknown need for her. Or to continue his ministrations, playing at false obliviousness. Sansa couldn't have been  _ oblivious  _ to what the hard press against the underside of her thigh was. She'd been – among other travesties – married to the Imp. (Petyr was gods-honest  _ surprised  _ that little monster hadn't consummated their marriage. Why? Scruples had never stopped him before from fucking whomever until his cock was completely spent. Any man with a working manhood would take one look at Sansa Stark and want to fill her).

           Petyr went with the latter, continuing to move across her thigh as that blasted need made his chest ache. It was a feeling he still hadn't got used to. 

           So he told Sansa of his dealings these past weeks. Not directly, allowing her to put together the pieces on the game they played. A game where – if Petyr was being honest, because he'd had his fill of cups for the night and his own logic was on a momentary pause – Petyr created the moves for all players. 

           A game where he was the king of them all. And beside him – never again a pawn – his Sansa.

           (Petyr's fingers dug and paused at her skin for a fraction of a second.  _ His _ ? Something of that  _ possession  _ made him wonder and worry what sort of things his heart had made him do. Would lead him to, all for the sake of seeing Sansa's smiles).

           She tried to hide it, too. Her smile. But the realization that, though it would take some time and careful maneuvering to get there, Sansa would get to see Winterfell again. The Winterfell of stone and not of snow.

           “That’s worth another kiss now, don’t you think?”

           A moment’s hesitation, a moment’s flutter of her smile, like when her hair had been speckled with snow and her cheeks a beautiful flush. But Sansa complied, willingly, hands upon his chest for balance as their lips met. 

           Petyr could  _ taste _ the longing Sansa's kiss. Not for him, but for home. For safety. 

           He didn't know what longing tasted like for another person. Catelyn never loved him. Lysa had madness filling her head for him. Petyr wasn't sure if he ever, truly, loved himself. 

_ I do believe m’lord’s in love.  _ A joke spoken behind the sticky walls of his brothel, a woman’s moans the background to the false revelation.  _ Love _ had been excuse for wavering eyes to assume Petyr was just as much a  _ man  _ as the lords and knights who fucked his girls. But kinder, softer. Not  _ needing  _ the overwhelming release because he'd been waiting. Because – surely – a man with a working cock would have a hard time resisting when surrounded by miles of naked flesh. So Petyr kept himself waiting. Waiting for his carved-out heart to beat once again.

           Petyr never thought that waiting would end.

           It excited him. 

           It terrified him.

           With reluctance, he ended their kiss. The wine was warming his blood too much. Seconds longer with his lips on hers, and he couldn't say where the night would lead.  _ Scaring  _ Sansa away wasn't his prerogative. Least of all when his new plans had her firmly in the center. 

           To woo Harrold Hardyng, to woo the entirety of the Vale. A monstrous task, yes, but one Sansa was far more capable of. Especially under his tutelage… Certainly he could parse some  _ lessons  _ in how to win over that foolish boy. Because Sansa – his sweet, beautiful, cunning girl – oh, she didn't know, but she'd already performed a feat no living soul could achieve. 

           She wormed herself between Littlefinger’s ribs, and revived the dead heart of Petyr Baelish. 

           “We can discuss further our plans to win over the Young Falcon’s heart. But for now, daughter, I imagine you must be exhausted from your journey. Go rest.” He pecked her lips again, one final taste.

           Dutifully, Sansa nodded. Politely, she removed herself from her perch atop his lap. Accidentally, – or not? – her had brushed against his hardness on her way down. 

           He resisted the urge to grab her arm and ask her for more.

           Petyr watched her leave. Sansa didn't once turn back, even as the  _ thudding  _ of the door closing echoed against into the chamber.

           With the quieting murmurs of the castle, he took himself in hand and dealt with that persistent ache. It would be interesting to see if an ache existed within Sansa, too. If perhaps in the weeks, months, years to come, Sansa might discover that the rotting muscle in her chest could be revived.

           Petyr was fully prepared to peel apart his scar and showed her his heart. To let her do as she pleased with it. And in time, perhaps, Sansa would learn to let Petyr into hers.

 


End file.
